Spain 1-0 Germany

Torres! Torres!

In a funny way, it kind of feels fitting that a chap who’s become very well known to the English, should score the decisive goal in a tournament bereft of an English presence. I could easily make a point about how this is symptomatic of the number of foreigners thriving in the English game whilst England itself suffers from a chronic lack of decent English players. But instead I’d just like to enjoy the fact that Fer-nan-do Torr-es hit the winner. Because I like Torres. Even if he looks like a 12 year old boy.

It’s the way he glides with a superhuman grace about the pitch – particularly with the ball at his feet. As a defender, if you let Torres turn and face you, you are essentially screwed. He goes past people so easily – not really with any great trickery, just tremendously quick feet and great control. And like more and more of today’s strikers, he strikes the ball with very little backlift, and it just flashes into the net.

His winning goal last night, though, was of a very different breed. Somehow getting round Philip Lahm without fouling the wee fella, he managed to lift a magnificent finish over the advancing Lehmann and then watched it scootle inside the far post. Superb.

I’d decided to watch this in the Famous Three Kings in West Kensington. Hardly a Spanish-named tapas bar, I know, but hey – I had Robolimb to think about. I had envisaged arriving at the couple of smallish Spanish bars I’d found online, finding the place completely rammed hours before kick-off, and being forced to perch on my one half-decent leg supported only by the rammed Iberian hordes around me.

The Three Kings seemed like an obvious choice. I’d heard it described as the boozer of choice for the Spanish during Euro 2008 (or, indeed, THE boozer of choice for any football fan in Euro 2008 ) – not sure if there’s a big Spanish contingent in West Kensington, or whether it’s just the place to be. Added to that I’d been there before, it is literally next door to the tube station, it has loads and loads of screens and a reasonably sized bar.

It is an excellent football pub – and an excellent pub in its own right, for that matter. The last time I was here was with the London Blades contingent, where they were showing Liverpool v United on one screen, West Ham v Spurs on the one behind us, Blackburn v Someone on the telly behind the bar, and Bundesliga on in the little bar off to the right. Given the latter, it was no surprise when I came out of the tube station and found myself at the back of a queue full of white shirts and red yellow and black face paint.

My immediate thought was “oh dear”, eased only slightly by the instant appearance of my fellow Europubber. This was a reasonably-sized queue which potentially indicated that the pub was already full – or, as I’d found before, that the pub required tickets. Fortunately, I was wrong – although regrettably, as my unfortunate mate found out ten minutes or so later, it was about to become full and they locked the doors.
£3.50 to get in with a complementary Bud – didn’t seem like too bad a deal, particularly as my other two Europubbers for the evening had already bagged a comfy sofa, which quickly became two comfy sofas. And I didn’t even have to use Robolimb for the sympathy vote.

Luckily – as I was intent on supporting the Spanish, not least because I had sweepstake money riding on it – there were plenty of Spaniards inside already. The pub had cleverly divided (not segregated) itself into Spanish and German bars/screens, and although we were sat in the Spanish area, the noise was all for the men in red. Viva!

Before kick-off, a pub employee on a mic announced that the Spanish coverage – on BBC – was about two seconds ahead of the German coverage (presumably on a German channel, given the Bundesliga). He asked the Germans if they wanted the channel changing to BBC, which seemed to be met with disapproval. Cue a large number of Spanish fans chanting “BBC, BBC, BBC!” in response.

The game started a little hesitantly for the Spanish, with Germany on the front foot. For all of ten minutes, after which Spain cruised. Xavi found teammates in space with ease. Iniesta teased and tormented his way down the left and into the box. A cross was turned goalwards by a German defender and somehow behind by Lehmann’s instinctive reaction. Torres hit the post with a header and the ball somehow failed to rebound to a red shirt. Lehmann saved again, and again, and then Torres struck and the pub erupted.

The Spanish national anthem doesn’t have any words. How good is that! Instead their fans just “na na na NA NAA NAAAH NA NAAAAH” along to it. Brilliant!

Germany were lame. The whole pub was in stitches at Podolski’s reaction to Silva’s head-peck (can’t really call it a butt). It would only have been funnier if he’d given it the full backflipping-dolphin impression and hurled himself to the turf. After the match the BBC showed a “Ballack chance” which was basically Chelsea’s finest shinning a half-volley into the side-netting with Casillas having it well covered. That was about as good as it got.

Spain pressed and pressed, Fabregas, Iniesta and Xavi once again to the fore. Spain actually looked better without Villa and just Torres up front on his own – a 4-5-1 with players perfectly suited to the formation, and everyone knowing what they should be doing. Lehmann saved a couple more times, Marcos Senna was this close to toeing in a second (shades of Gazza v Germany in Euro 96!), and Metzelder kneed one off the line.

For a horrible, horrible moment, I thought that my prediction that Germany would somehow nick it was going to come true. A prediction made in the hope that it would not come true. Fortunately, it didn’t.

The final whistle blew, the Spanish went crazy. Not in an insane, glass-smashing beer frenzy way, but in a genuinely happy, disbelieving sort of way. An “I can’t believe this has happened to our boys” sort of way.

I must admit there was a touch of jealousy in my otherwise genuine shared delight at the Spanish victory. As they all danced and hugged each other, I was left wondering – will I ever feel like that with England? More pertinently, would I feel like that if the current bunch of cretins and twats had qualified and won the tournament? Perhaps I’m not actually as cynical as that. But anyway, food for thought.

Before the cheers and whistles had died away – a good couple of minutes later – the pub started playing We Are The Champions. It was both amusing and touching to see everyone stop jumping around singing Spanish football songs of victory and launch straight into Queen instead. In English. True multiculturalism at work!

Meanwhile the German fans slunk out. But there was barely a sad face in sight – it was as though even they were enjoying the scenes of Spanish celebration. Maybe it’s because they’re a far more successful footballing nation than us, it doesn’t hurt as much. Hmm. That seems a little condescending. Maybe they don’t take their football as seriously. Well, who knows. Either way, they took defeat with good grace.

We had a celebratory pint and then headed for home. On the Piccadilly Line, I became aware of singing from the forthcoming station. On the platform were a group of perhaps 20 Spaniards, singing their hearts out. They all piled into one carriage and carried on singing. At the next station, heads turned towards that carriage, and every Spaniard on the station ran down the platform and piled in with the rest. This continued until I got off – you had a “singing carriage” that reminded me very slightly of the flying party in Life, The Universe and Everything.

It was a fitting end to a fun night, and a great tournament. And a great experience for me. I’ll end this post here, and I’m going to take a couple of days out to gather my thoughts on the whole thing… and then post them here. Watch this space.

Anklewatch Day 8

Just a quickie – in a shock move that seemed impossible 8 days ago, it looks as though I’m going to be ok to make the final somewhere in London.

This is after the NHS upgraded me from pegleg to Robolimb.

As worn by Wayne Rooney apparently! How fitting. I almost feel like a professional footballer. It supposedly features – amongst other things – an “adjustable pneumatic cushioning system to reduce swelling”. Which is actually just a fancy way of saying that it comes with a little hand-pump thing so that you can squish your foot as much as you want, like some bizarre game of Russian Roulette.

It is quite nifty though, even if I do look like a bit of a, well, a twat I suppose. It means I can walk around without crutches (walking around without crutches and without Robolimb is so hard right now, my foot resembles a large purple balloon) and it is supposed to heal my torn ligaments a lot quicker than most other things.

And, it means I can get on public transport (as evidenced by last night), have a few drinks in the pub (as evidenced by last night), and watch Spain’s march to glory (and £20 for me), as evidenced – hopefully – by tomorrow night.

Watch this space – the grand finale of Euro 2008 approacheth, and, thanks to Robolimb, so do I.

Turkey 2-3 Germany

Dang. I just caught sight of something I wrote on here last Tuesday or Wednesday about making the effort to get out to all the remaining games now that the tournament was coming to a head. So much for that.

 

Germany – you jammy bastards! I’m really feeling for Turkey right now, yet again they played a key part in one of the tournament’s most dramatic games, making the most of their limited resources that were even more depleted than usual through injuries and suspensions brought on by lung-busting efforts in previous games.

And bloody hell did they push Germany hard tonight. In fact, for a long time, the tournament favourites barely saw the ball. Turkey could already have been ahead before Boral knocked in, and when Schweinsteiger equalised there was a strong sense of it coming against the run of play. Klose gave them the lead following Rustu’s cock-up, but you almost knew that there was another twist – Semih making it 2-2. Shame there was one more twist after that, as Lahm compensated for a poor game defensively by scoring with a great finish.

What were Germany doing? They looked absent in midfield – even when Frings came on – shaky in defence, anonymous in attack and spent more time kicking the ball long and into touch than they did with it under control. Turkey have few stars but once again maximised what they have. Two seasons ago I watched Colin Kazim-Richards playing well sporadically for Sheffield United; now he was starring in a European Championship semi-final.

Metzelder and Lahm at the back seemed intent on defying my inclusion of them in a team of the tournament – the former in particular keen on whacking it straight through to Rustu at every opportunity. Friedrich looked like a chump of a right-back and Mertesacker looks like a penalty waiting to happen.

Yet despite all this, I don’t agree with most of the BBC pundits’ assessment that the Germans are an average team filled with average players. I thought there was a healthy dose of jingoism or the usual anti-German sentiment creeping in there. True, Germany were poor, but they weren’t horrendous. Turkey played well above themselves – probably the best they’ve managed so far – and Germany played below par. The result was still three goals and a win for Germany. Alan Hansen’s comment that their only star is Ballack is just more typically lazy Premiership-centric punditry. As good as Ballack is, many have played as well for them this summer – Podolski and Lahm to name but two.

The BBC. Christ. If only there hadn’t actually been a storm that cut off the picture, if only that had been an excuse – I was mentally penning a ferocious tirade against that bloody organisation. Something along the lines of “maybe if they’d invested my licence fee in some decent cabling instead of a fucking jolly for Jacqui Oatley and friends to produce another shit, tenuously-linked tedious piece of crap about Austrian history to fill the half-time break because Hansen, Shearer and Lineker are too busy scoffing at each others’ two-tone shirts and shiny brogues that they can’t be bothered to earn their six-figure salaries and actually make an interesting, insightful comment on the game they’re supposed to be watching, then I wouldn’t be sat here staring at a red screen and listening to Alan Green whinging about how bad a game it is or listen to Chris Waddle say the word ‘pelanty’ for the nth time”.

But no. God concocted a storm. Thanks a bunch.

Nonetheless! Motson and “Lawro” drove me bonkers again. Lawrenson – look, pal, just because people refer to you as “Lawro”, it doesn’t mean they like you. It’s just that when people spend so much time calling you a tosser, they develop a certain amount of familiarity if not affection.

Motson: “It’s really getting dark overhead, isn’t it Mark?” IT’S CALLED NIGHT YOU MORONS.

There was one gloriously awesome moment when the pictures returned post-power cut, the Five Live commentary stopped, and we were treated to 10 beautiful seconds of crowd noise before Motson came back on. BBC Interactive offer the choice of picture with Five Live comms, but they’re still missing a trick in not offering the opportunity to turn the commentary off altogether and just live off the atmosphere in the stadium – as though you were actually there.

If it’s good enough for Pro Evolution Soccer, it should be good enough for the Beeb.

Anklewatch: I’m hopeful of being mobile enough to get out of my house for the final. Regardless, I can now confidently say that despite my best intentions, I’ll have gone the whole tournament without supporting the Germans.

 

Spain 0-0 Italy (Spain win on penaltiezzzzzzzzz)

I’m grateful, eternally grateful to the Italians and the Spanish, for reminding us just how spoiled we’ve been in these Euros by serving up 120 minutes of dullness punctuated only sporadically by a long-range shot or a penalty shout (and, just once, a reminder that Gianluigi Buffon is not a goalkeeping deity as some believe).

And how motherfucking scary is this porcelain child?! I put it in because it looks asleep, but jesus, I’m going to be seeing that coming at me in my sleep for the rest of the tournament.

In fairness to Spain, I think the blame lies largely with the Italians (who leave the tournament having scored only 3 goals - two of them against porous, 10-man France and one a penalty, the other a deflection). Watching that game was like watching England against the average teams we usually get drawn against – and struggle against – in qualifying. Think Macedonia, Israel, Iceland, and er… Andorra. One team has lots of possession but rarely looks penetrative; the other team drops back in vast numbers, marking space and blocking any hope of enterprising play.

The contrast with the footballing treat served up by the Dutch and the Russians the night before was incredible. On the subject of England, the main positive to come out of them not qualifying is that in doing so, we haven’t deprived the rest of Europe of Hiddink’s entertaining, enterprising young team and its clutch of rising stars. Kudos Steve, that’s what you were doing all along, wasn’t it?

Fair play to Spain – overcoming the penalty hoodoo (aaah June 22nd aaaah) with some excellent spotkicks. And I’m now at least £5 richer, woo.

And now… hang on. Why hasn’t the football coverage started? WHERE ARE THE GAMES? What? There’s no match today? Or tomorrow? Whaaaaat!

What the hell am I going to do!

Netherlands 1-3 Russia

I started this game fully intending to support the Dutch – bottles of Amstel to hand (well, only a short crutch-hop away), and a plate of chips ready to be drowned in mayo. But, as Clive Tyldesley remarked in extra time, you couldn’t help but love the Russians. Again.

Wow. They looked bloody good, didn’t they? What a performance, to so completely outplay the outstanding team of the tournament so far, a team that had comprehensively trounced the finalists from the 2006 World Cup. And whilst the pundits were keen to pick up on a frailty at defending freekicks, the rest of their defending was spot on – the Netherlands had to resort to long-range efforts and thus rarely tested Akinfeev in goal.

But the Russians! They attack in the way that every fan wants their team to go about business; with pace, movement and purpose. Arshavin is their fulcrum but not their sole outlet by any stretch; Zhirkov and Zyryanov are brilliant down the left but in truth they can all play. If their finishing was a bit sharper they would have won by a jaw-dropping margin.

And Pav did it again! Good lad! I love it when a footballing tip comes off. If his blistering shot in extra-time had flown into the top corner instead of cracking against the bar, we’d have had another contender for goal of the tournament – controlling a cross-field ball with his chest, attacking the defender and then firing in a terrific strike from 20 yards. Not even Van Der Sar could get a hand on that, although the rest of his goalkeeping was exceptional and a part in Russia not having the game sewn up long before the final whistle. His left-handed save from Arshavin in the first half was superb. Pavlyuchenko though – sign him up, sign him up, sign him up… This is him pointing to me in the crowd after I defended him on here despite what everyone else said:

            

On the subject of “I told you so”…

*ahem*

“And yet… I can’t help but feel that this is all going to some kind of sadistic German plan. Spain and Holland are burning themselves out too early with their star players firing on all cylinders, while the well-oiled German machine calmly minds the speed limit and bumbles along in first gear, doing just enough. They are going to win this, aren’t they?”

Shit. Be afraid.

Can Russia win this? Inconceivable 24 hours ago. Play like that for two more games though… and the answer is an emphatic “yes”. I can’t quite work out whether the Netherlands were just amazed at a team attacking them after France, Italy and Romania generally just cocked about for 90 minutes, that they didn’t know what to do. Certainly Ooijer and Heitinga were so thoroughly confused by Arshavin that he could probably have won the game on his own. Instead he had to content himself with the killer goal through Edwin’s legs.

One final word on the Russians. Denis Kolodin – that is some right foot you have there, son! Recalling memories of Alan Partridge’s “Shit! He’s got a foot like a traction engine!” commentary, the central defender (yes, defender) let fly no fewer than four times, each one requiring Van Der Sar to fling himself through the air. You’d think the Dutch would have started to close him down after the first couple of sighters had hit the target or whistled just past it, but no.

“30 yards out? Leave him lads, he’ll do nowt from there….oh.”

“40 yards? Pah…”

I reckon if a Dutch player had been caught offside, Arshavin would have tapped the freekick for Kolodin to strike from 70 yards. And he probably still would’ve had Van Der Sar scrambling.

Ok, so we’re one week on since I picked my team of the tournament so far (Boruc, Van Bronckhurst, Ooijer, Pepe, Ramos, Korkmaz, Sneijder, Modric, Deco, Villa, Podolski), so this would be a logical time to pick another one and see if it’s changed. Oddly enough, with one quarter final left to play, only Ramos, Villa and Podolski are still in the tournament. Come tonight and it could just be Lukas. Here we go then:

 

Goalkeeper: Edwin Van Der Sar (Netherlands) - ultimately fruitless, but for a while he kept his country’s hopes alive single-handed. Or double-handed. Good effort.

Left-back: Yuri Zhirkov (Russia) – he looks the business, a tremendous attacking full-back who can defend equally well. I’m sure there’ll be a lot of clubs sniffing around CSKA Moscow when this tournament’s over. Even if he does look a little like an 80s version of Martin Keown. If only he’d jumped on Van Nistelrooy, as my Amstel-swigging chum pointed out.

Centre-half: Christoph Metzelder (Germany) – held firm against Ronaldo et al. This has been a midfielder’s tournament so far with defending very much taking a backseat, but Germany have been tested in just about every game bar the Poland one and held out. His defensive partner, Mertesacker, looks cumbersome by comparison – witness his bearhugging effort in the box against Austria.

Centre-half: Pepe (Portugal) – I’m keeping him in because a) I missed most of the Germany v Portugal game, despite seeing the poor team defending for most of the goals, and b) because I genuinely haven’t seen anyone play better – yet. Maybe I should’ve waited until the game tonight.

Right-back: Philip Lahm (Germany) – if you played this chap with Zhirkov, you wouldn’t need to bother with wingers. Outstanding.

Left midfield: Andrei Arshavin (Russia) – slightly shoe-horned out on the left, but that was where he popped up to most devastating effect last night – teasing and tormenting defenders by threatening to cut inside and then going outside instead. He looks absolutely phenomenal, a dream of a player.

Centre midfield: Michael Ballack (Germany) – slow start, picking up the pace. It’s noticeable that as he’s done so, Germany have improved. Scored a tremendous freekick against Austria and has upped his game from minute-to-minute since. I really do think Germany are going to win this, mainly because of this fella’s improving form.

Centre midfield: Wesley Sneijder (Netherlands) – anonymous last night until about the 80th minute when he tried to drag his team back into it. But he deserves his spot on the basis of tremendous performances against Italy and France -and those goals.

Right midfield: Deco (Portugal) – tempting as it is to put Pigbeer here (sorry, Schweinsteiger), I gather that Deco was still a little genius against Germany despite defeat. Another one who has vastly enhanced his reputation in the space of four games this summer.

Striker: David Villa (Spain) – the tournament’s top scorer despite not having kicked a ball since the last time I penned a Team of the Tourney

Striker: Lukas Podolski (Germany) – no goals against Portugal but his flexibility in being able to function as a left-winger is commendable. He strikes the ball with incredible purity, and was a few inches away from a remarkable goal when he struck that swerving first-timer from about 35 yards in the quarter final. I scored a goal just like that on Friday actually, well sorta, before my ankle went… Pav’s catching up with this fella though.

Right, spaghetti bolognese tonight with the Spain v Italy game, but despite that I’m supporting the Spanish. My sweepstake team, victory will bring me a minimum of five pounds. Viva Espagna!

Until Russia play again… go go go!

             

Am I Alex Frei In Disguise

The match had entered the last minute, with both teams deadlocked in a high-scoring game that looked destined to finish with honours even. My team surged forward and just for a moment it looked as though a teammate might nick it, but just as he pulled the trigger, his shot was blocked.

The ball seemed to spin loose, in my direction, in slow motion. I knew exactly what I needed to do. With the outside of my right foot, I struck the ball with a sweetness that would make Ronaldo proud, but just as it left my foot, something happened to my ankle.

The cracking noise was heard all around the stadium, reverberating off the giant stands like a gunshot. I tumbled to the floor, and the last thing I saw as I crashed to the ground was the ball smacking into the top corner of the net. I’d done it.

On the floor, things were not so good. I appeared to have someone’s fist attached to the side of where my ankle would normally end. My teammates crowded around in obvious distress. The ballboy had turned away in horror. Through the pain, I heard Roy Keane vomiting close by. But through the agony, through the mist, I knew that no matter what, we’d won the game.*

And yet despite that, as the elation wore off, I realised that although the show would go on for my teammates, my tournament was over.

Here’s a picture of me taken just after the final whistle:

                                            

Right, okay, I confess – none of the above actually happened. No last-minute goal, no stadium, no Roy Keane, no vomming ballboys. I made it all up. That’s not even me in that picture! It’s David Beckham! Imagine that. But wait, I have fractured my ankle. Playing football. With the last kick of the fucking session. from a standing start. In the warm-down. What a joke! I wasn’t even trying anything elaborate, like a Cruyff turn. I know my limitations – a Cruyff turn would probably result in something like this:

                   

But the bottom line is, my leg is in plaster and it looks as though my tournament really is over – god knows how I’m going to get to the pub like this. Never mind attempt to use crutches after a few pints.

It’s a bit of a disaster. Maybe this is god’s revenge after I missed the first 70 minutes of Portugal v Germany the other night (which looked a belter). Sorry god. But after spending Too Bloody Long in A&E yesterday evening, I did get home for the end of Turkey v Croatia – 116 minutes on the clock when I switched on. Awesome! Extrapolate that out and if I’d watched from the start it’d have finished about 45-46.

You’ve really got to love Turkey. They’re in the semifinals and they’ve led for a total of 4 minutes throughout the tournament – both of those in stoppage time against the Czechs and the Swiss. I spoke to a very hungover German colleague yesterday who was itching for a go against the Turks (rather than revenge against the Croats, which seemed odd) and he’s now going to get his wish. It would be brilliant if they dumped Germany out, although a Germany vs Holland/Spain/Italy final would be magnificent.

Look, whilst I’m very pissed off that this has happened, with one week to go and in the height of summer (well, sorta), I’m going to find a way around it. The first step tonight is to relocate from watching it in the pub to watching it at home… with Dutch beer and, um, chips in mayo. They fucking drown ‘em in that shit.

Well, that’s the plan anyway. Hup Holland. My tournament will go on, it will just be a lot less interesting for me and for anyone reading this hoping for tips on good places to go in London. I guess you can all bugger off back to your dayjobs now.

Here’s me being led away by consoling teammates.

                  #

*Partial writing credit to the missus.

Russia 2-0 Sweden

Mother Russia! How I love thee. Seriously though, I love Russia. I love their language, their national anthem, their music, and I’m coming to love the way they play football. In fact I can sing their national anthem. I don’t know any of the words but I can “da da da” along like a good ‘un. Although given that the Russian word for “yes” is “da”, it’s entirely possible that someone could hear me and think I really love the national anthem. I mean really love it. Like, When Harry Met Sally love it.

None of the above is inspired by my love of Red Alert 2 and the many hours of university time wasted conquering the world with the Soviets (eat flaming death, Allied scum!).

Once again I’m filled with this tremendous sense of achievement in having found another marvellous place in London that I would likely never have encountered were I not attempting this Europub mission. Potemkin in Farringdon is excellent!

Aside from recalling images of Battleship Potemkin, the Odessa steps and Sergei Eisenstein, it is a genuinely marvellous little place. Spit n’ sawdust it most definitely is not; in fact it’s rather swanky albeit with reasonable prices. The bar area isn’t massive but there’s a restaurant downstairs that I will definitely be sampling at some point. The menu looked enticing – if only I hadn’t eaten re-heated pasta bake just an hour earlier…

The lager weren’t bad either – Baltika #3 at £3.15 a pint, very refreshing taste. A small part of me dies every time I pay more than £2.50 for a pint of beer but this really was good stuff. In fact my only regret was that I didn’t sample the (extensive) vodka menu. The menus themselves come with “vodka etiquette” instructions at the back, including a nice section on the traditional way to drink vodka with food. Yum yum.

There wasn’t too many people in watching the football though, in truth. As my mate commented, Potemkin is an excellent place to take a lass on a date, so it’s less of a “football pub” but this was enjoyable all the same. The only annoying thing was the pair of English twats who insisted on haranguing this poor girl for pretty much the whole night.

We think she was a reporter of some kind – overhearing their conversation, it sounded like she was attempting something similar to what I am here, but presumably for an actual publication. Anyway, this pair of tosspots were banging on all bloody night. Horrendously, one of them was a Yorkshireman. Talk about letting the side down. Clearly not a self-respecting Yorkshireman. Possibly he was from Leeds. Booooooo!

“He MOW-tee-vaytes ‘em!” Apparently this is why Guus Hiddink is successful.

We gathered that the reporter was Korean, hence the bloke’s continual reiteration as to Hiddink’s qualities. Amusingly, he’d opened the exchange with:

“Russia, right, they’re rubbish.”
Everyone in the bar, Russian or no, looked round.
“Hiddink, right, is brilliant.”
Fair doos.

How does he achieve such amazing success? “He motivates ‘em!”

Awesome. Tosser. He must have said that 20 times while we were there. And that was just the bits we heard. We were trying desperately to ignore him.

Right, enough about the English twats. Russia were really, really good in this game. I do like the Russkies – I tipped them to go pretty far in this tourney, not, like, the final or anything, but pretty far as in semi-finals. They play excellent football and what a difference the return of Arshavin makes.

They’re quick all over the pitch; in the mind as much as on the ground. The ball moves like a pinball, but with control. Every touch is designed to open up options; to face the goal or make a passing angle. And in this game, unlike against Greece, they made the right decisions rather than over-complicating and scored two very nice goals.

To a man, they’re footballers, in short, and in all honesty I’m left wondering just how it took an English loss to Croatia to sneak them through to the finals in the first place. Playing like this, they look a match for most teams – and I mean that sincerely. They now play Holland in the quarters and whilst I expect Holland to win, it should be a hell of a game. Both teams attack so beautifully.

Andrei Arshavin – I’ve heard a lot about this chap but only seen him a few times. He really does look a tidy player – expect to read his name linked with all and sundry in the papers over the coming weeks. But it’s Pavlyuchenko that really interests me.

This fella could do well. He’s already bagged two goals in this tournament, to go with another two he scored against England in Moscow. I like him a lot; he reminds me a little bit of Wayne Rooney – slightly taller, less strong and more selfish, but there are definite elements of the Roon about his play. For starters, I feel like something’s going to happen when he gets the ball into feet. His movement is good. He likes to turn and face the goal and get at defenders. He’s the kind of guy that gets the crowd on the edge of their seats when he gets hold of the ball.

He’s still quite raw, and there were definite technical deficiencies about his finishing tonight – he could have had three or four goals comfortably, as against Greece. It’s that lack of clinical finishing that will probably be the difference between him being a good player (a Jermain Defoe) and a great player (a Shevchenko – pre-Chelsea), but there’s a spark there. If I was a football coach, I think I’d look at him with some excitement and think “here’s something I can work with and turn into a star”. Whatever. We’ll have him down Bramall Lane any day.

And so the quarterfinals are set up intriguingly. Spain v Italy is the eye-catching one I think – I can see the Italians having a bit of a sneaky run now, even without the suspended Gattuso and (more importantly) Pirlo. I guess the biggie is Portugal v Germany tonight – who to support! I’m still undecided – it could be time for Bavarian Beerhouse debut, or a couple of the Portuguese places I’ve picked out, or outright neutrality in a standard pub.

One thing’s for sure; the tournament is reaching a head now, and as the games become more spaced (particularly next week), come hell or high water I’ll be seeing all of them out in Europubs. The beauty of this mission is that it’s contained within 3 weeks, which means I can continue to turn out a load of bumpf on here with some regularity and not bore myself out of it. But as a result, it’s imperative that I make the most of it. After all, Euros only come round every four years…

Спасибо. Go to Potemkin. Listen to Dominion/Mother Russia by the Sisters of Mercy.

Austria 0-1 Germany

I watched this one from home.

I’m also unable to watch tomorrow night’s do-or-die between the World Cup Finalists, but didn’t particularly want to leave a gaping hole in my blog in doing so. Nonetheless, I’ll keep it brief.

Germany. Hmm. Two games running they haven’t looked particularly good. Austria were downright lame for most of the game and yet still caused several problems, including failing to get a pretty obvious penalty on the grounds that they didn’t appeal for one. It’s not bloody cricket – fortunately. Can you imagine if they borrowed that ruling from cricket – a ref can only give a decision if there is an appeal? Oh wait…

Quite how I missed Philip Lahm out of my “team of the tourney” so far remains as much of a mystery to me as it does to anyone else who read that team and thought “Bronckhurst/Ramos WTF lolz”. He is probably the best full-back in Europe, and even though he looks like a midget amongst the rest of the Land of the Giants that is the German side, he’s a sturdy fella at the back and wins plenty in the air.

I feel like we’re being treated in this tournament. We’ve had last night’s epic, a terrific messabout in ridiculous rain, some belting goals (Ballack’s being the latest), genuine upsets, spikey red-card incidents, and now even a blatant clip round the ear for Lukas Podolski. And on the evidence of German bumbling, we may have a relative newcomer to the crown of Champions, after all – Portugal, Spain or Croatia are looking promising.

And yet… I can’t help but feel that this is all going to some kind of sadistic German plan. Spain and Holland are burning themselves out too early with their star players firing on all cylinders, while the well-oiled German machine calmly minds the speed limit and bumbles along in first gear, doing just enough. They are going to win this, aren’t they?

Oliver Neuville is still playing football! And he still looks like a rat in human form. I never thought he’d look uglier than his England 5-1 Germany days, but with the bald spot, he’s managed it. Played son.

See you in a couple of days.

Czech Republic 2-3 Turkey

Ouch. That, has got, to hurt. Four years ago I watched England play France in a pub in Sheffield (on TV, obviously – the game wasn’t actually being staged in The Big Tree, although that would’ve been awesome). England were winning, and even though Beckham had missed a penalty, victory was assured. The crowing had begun – unlucky Thierry!

Then Zidane scored a freekick in what felt like the last minute. Then, in the last, last last minute, Gerrard decided to gift Henry a chance to win a penalty, which he did, which Zidane converted. My mum picked us up from the pub and I don’t think my dad and I said a single word for the rest of the day.

So I know how it feels. But as gutting as that was, this was one of the bigger footballing chokes I’ve witnessed. Even worse was that I watched in a Czech pub/club full of extremely passionate Czechs – and a surprising amount of English, as it happens.

Well, I say a pub/club, but the Czech and Slovak Club in West Hampstead is more like someone’s house. We walked up and down a few times before we even spotted it, and even then it was only because a bloke with red Czech shirt on happened to be going in through the front gate. There was a sign on the front door – Sorry, We’re Full – but undaunted, we entered.

Surreal. A “restaurant” area had candles and paintings straight from Castle Dracula, there was one large room that actually looked like a pub room, one the looked like a school classroom, a swankier, smaller room with a bar, and a neat smoking area outside. Having slightly misjudged our bus journey from Finchley, we arrived at about half seven and so seating was out of the question, so were resigned instead to peering around the doorway to the “classroom” – which, as it happened, was the position of choice for the English contingent in attendance. A lovely bunch they were too. One of them was a kindred spirit – attempting the same Europub mission as me, and we were able to trade a few tips and venues. He previously had a 100% record as well – sorry fellas.

The Czech Pilsner was slightly disappointing – a bit flavourless and at the now-standard £3. But like a “proper” football pub, they had staff queuing up the pints while one bloke handled the orders, meaning that you handed over your coinage and received beer immediately. Great stuff.

On beer more generally – the Czechs really don’t take good care of the stuff! When Koller opened the scoring with a typically powerful header, booze went flying. Before the game, one fella stood up for the national anthem and in doing so spilled his freshly-poured pint all over himself and his friends. Another guy strolled outside on the phone absently sloshing the contents of his mug all over the shop. And criminally, I set my three-quarter drunk pint down for all of thirty seconds and when I went for another sip, I found my hand grasping thin air. Bastards! I was still drinking that!

The atmosphere was the best of the tournament so far, even before Koller scored. The Czech fans had a nice variety of songs, although the standard one did sound an awful lot like they were chanting “Turkey” – “Cher-KIE” I assume being the native pronunciation of their country. One bloke, who had magnificently intricate facial hair to go with his Mohawk and tattoos, was particularly vociferous – and not a little pished. He was also chief instigator of a mental mosh-pit of a celebration following the opening goal.

Turkey were rotten in that first half, but as with the game against the Swiss, they were a different side in the second, getting the ball wide and penning the Czechs back. Nonetheless, the lead was doubled with a fine finish, and should have been tripled when a great counter-attack led to a deflected shot against the post.

At this point, the Czech fans were hugging in justified confidence. An English bloke was having his photo taken with Mr Mohawk and his giant Czech flag, which precipitated this exchange:

English: “Cheers!” *clinks glasses*
Czech: “Cheers.”
E: “In Czech?”
C: “Huh?”
E: “In Czech?” *clinks glass again*
C: “Cheers?”
E: “Yeah – in Czech?”
C: “Cheers.”
E: “Cheers?”
C: “Cheers!”

Ah, the international language of beer.

Then suddenly, out of nowhere, Turkey were back in the game. A beautifully worked opening ended with the ball being placed in precisely the only place that Petr Cech couldn’t reach it – after we’d been discussing how the Chelsea keeper is rarely beaten.

Now the pressure was on. I remarked that there was no way that the Czechs could keep defending so deep – ten men within forty yards of the goal, but nobody pressing the full backs hard enough to prevent the crosses coming in. And eventually one did come in, Cech stretched and stretched but it slipped through his fingers and dropped for Nihat to tap in. The Turkish striker was almost celebrating before he’d kicked the ball, he couldn’t believe it.

Silence in the club, total silence. The four English (me, Alex, two guys) turned to each other with the same expression on our faces. Imagine you’ve just knocked over an extremely old, extremely expensive vase in a public place. That was the face we were all pulling. Yeesh.

But before we’d digested that, Turkey came forward again, the ball was slipped perfectly through to Nihat, who scored with the most sublime curling finish you’ll see, an absolute cracker clipping in off the underside of the bar (yay!).

No silence this time. Mohawk went bonkers, hurling his stool aside, shoving past us into the smoking area and smashing his pint glass against the floor before kicking the shit out a bin and a table. I was beginning to fear for my safety (never mind Alex’s) at this point and one of the chaps we’d been chatting to had taken refuge in the space between the door and the wall. Wise.

But then suddenly a cry went up – even in Czech it was obvious that they were calling “penalty!” The Czechs had poured forward and Volkan, the Turkish keeper, had been sent off. We had no idea what for – we couldn’t see a bloody thing. But if he’d been sent off, it must surely be a penalty.

But no – he’d flattened Jan Koller (good effort lad!) after the ball had drifted past the post. Red card, but with play dead, no penalty. More disappointment, more anger. The final whistle went, we said a friendly farewell to the two English chaps (see you in De Heims?) and slunk out, trying to look upset.

Safety reached, I covered my mouth and muttered to the missus, “bloody rate game!”

Mohawk was kicking seven bells out of a bin further up the road. Superb drama, a terrific game, a surreal place and another evening that makes me feel glad that I’m doing what I’m doing. And, as much fun as it was, glad I’m not Czech tonight.

 

 

The story so far

Seeing as I’m having a couple of days off and watching the matches from home, and as by this evening every team will have played two games, I thought this would be a good time to reflect on the first week of Euro 2008.

The Netherlands – bloody hell. Their second goal against France came somewhat against the run of play as the French seemed to finally wake up, but they have largely been breathtakingly good. And enjoyable. Perhaps this is part of England’s non-qualification (in that I don’t look at other good teams with a mix of envy and fear), but there’s something very likeable about this Dutch side. Van Basten is an affable fella, they have lots of pace down the wings and score some lovely goals. Sneijder has scored twice now and both will probably compete with themselves for goal of the tournament.

His first (against Italy) is probably the purist’s pick – as good a counter-attack as you’ll wish to see – but my personal favourite was his strike against the French. Neat turn on the edge of the box and one of those shots that you know is in as soon as it leaves the boot. And it kissed in off the underside of the bar which, as those of you who know me will be aware, adds several points in the aesthetically-pleasing column in my book. Marvellous.

So the Dutch look very, very good. I’ve just watched Spain look not-quite-so-good against a solid Swedish side, but they have some seriously talented individuals – Xavi, Iniesta, Fabregas, Puyol, and of course Torres and Villa. In injury time I was mentally composing this post and was decided on something along the lines of “Villa had an ultimately fruitless day but still looked the dog’s bollocks”. So…er… Villa had an ultimately fruitful day and still looks the dog’s bollocks. Ah, the benefit of waiting until full time.

France! WTF! You can’t just stroll around you know, this is the European Championships. After Makelele’s hilarious one-man red-card mission yesterday and their general lethargy, they’re in serious trouble. As it is, but for Gianluigi Buffon’s penalty save, they would have been joined in the Deep Shit Pit by Italy, who are apparently world champions.

Does anyone know why Buffon seems to be wearing some sort of highway robber’s scarf round his neck? Is he expecting a sandstorm? Whatever, it was a good save and Italy will probably go on to win the bloody thing now.

                                  

Germany face the possibility of being knocked out by Austria. It’s a remote possibility but surely the fact that it’s even being contemplated is embarrassing enough. Expect them to stuff the hosts though and stick around for a good while yet. Portugal will always be fancied as long as Ronaldo is on the pitch – but Deco and Simao have also been excellent.

Croatia are the real winners so far, in terms of reputation relative to achievement. I’m intrigued to see how the rest of Europe views them, given that the English have become so familiar with them over the last 12 months or so. This seems horrendously arrogant of me to say, but aside from Modric (and the injured Eduardo) they don’t have any “stars” like all of the above. But they don’t need them – Bilic is a canny chap and has them playing for each other and to their strengths. Which, unlike Greece in 2004, is still attractive to watch. Good luck to them.

The Czechs have disappointed – perhaps bored of their tag of “dark horses” and keen to downgrade to “donkeys” instead. But they face an intriguing one tomorrow against Turkey. The way the group has panned out means that both they and Turkey have the same points, the same goal difference, and the same goals scored, which means that a draw will result in the game going to extra time and penalties to decide who goes through. Should be exciting, and I’m going to hunt for a Czech bar in which to cheer them on.

Team So Far (based on players I’ve seen play well, rather than heard/read about)

Goalkeeper: Artur Boruc (Poland) – a wall against Austria

Left-back: Giovanni Van Bronckhurst (Netherlands) – scored a great goal against Italy and gets forward at every opportunity

Centre-half: Andre Ooijer (Netherlands) – purely for last night’s block when Henry looked destined to score. I don’t care that it hit his arm, it was a legal block and a crucial one

Centre-half: Pepe (Portugal) – had a goal ruled out against Turkey so decided to score an even better one later in the game. Big strong fella who looks excellent on the ball – even outshining Ricardo Carvalho

Right-back: Sergio Ramos (Spain) – although probably better going forward than coming backwards

Left midfield: Umit Korkmaz (Austria) – terrifically skillful performance against Poland – they simply couldn’t get near him

Centre midfield: Wesley Sneijder (Netherlands) – slightly out of position here perhaps, but no room for him up front. Undoubtedly one of the players of the tournament so far

Centre midfield: Luka Modric (Croatia) – impressive – for a Spurs player. He looks like a nerdy schoolkid but somewhere in that tiny body is a hell of a lot of strength and no little skill. Will surely be a huge success in the Premiership.

Right midfield: Deco (Portugal) – Frank Rijkaard must be wondering what the hell he was playing at all season at Barcelona, marginalising this chap. Needs to stop pulling that “I CANNOT BELIEVE IT REFEREE” face though.

Striker: David Villa (Spain) – who else?

Striker: Lukas Podolski (Germany) – Headers & Volleys World Champion 2008